The Adventure in Montenegro
by Kimi the Great
Summary: The story of what happens between The Final Problem and The Empty House. Based off of William S. Bering-Gould's book on what he thought happens. Fluff and stuff. HolmesxAdler. Sorry for the title. Its not really an adventure. I couldn't think of anything.
1. The Meeting

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Parts taken from William S. Bering-Gould's book indicated by bold print and note at the end of the chapter.**

**Please feel free to leave constructive criticism in the comments. Thank you and enjoy!**

After escaping from her cruel husband and the false marriage she had been bound to, Irene Adler was free from any hindrance and worry she had previously experienced. She was now, again, her own woman, free to do as she liked and naturally gravitated back towards the opera. This time, playing the role of Maddalena in _Rigoletto_, Irene found herself in Montenegro, performing in the Cettigne Opera House.

The opera had been running for three nights now. At first, had thought nothing at first of the tall, strange man who sat in the theater boxes watching her performance, his look of wonder hidden behind his thick black mustache. She was, after all, an international beauty and her singing voice was matchless. Countless people had stared at her, transfixed by the sonorous sound of her voice, in awe that so sweet and heavenly a resonance could come from a mere woman such as herself.

Yes, it was a familiar sight to her to see one such as this man so enthralled by her performance. It did not even bother her that he had come to her other performances as well. Repeat theater goers often did so. But what bothered her about this man was that his look of amazement never seemed to waver after three consecutive performances. Normally, one would still appreciate the music, but the novelty of such a sweet voice would wear off, but it was not so for this man. He seemed to grow more enraptured by her each time he laid eyes on her and heard her lovely voice.

She was even more upset when the man met her at her dressing room backstage in between the first two acts. She tried to make it seem as if she were in a hurry so she would be able to rush past him without having to stop too long, but her efforts were in vain.

"Please, madame," the man said, his voice thick with a Norwegian accent. "I have something for you."

"That is quite alright," she said, as graciously as she could for a person wanting to be out of this man's company. "You have no need to bother yourself with gifts for me."

"Ah, but it is not a gift," the man said smiling. "It is a note."

"If it is only a note, you may hand it to the stage manager," she said. "It will make its way to me eventually. I am wanted back on stage and I must go now."

"I know I make you uncomfortable, madame," he said, reaching into his breast pocket to retrieve the letter. "Allow me to deliver this message to you myself and then you shall see no more of me unless you wish it. I swear this to you."

She did not know if she should warrant this man with her trust, but something in his grey eyes made inclined to agree to the arrangement.

"I shall read your letter after my performance tonight," she said, reaching to grab the letter.

"I am very sorry, madame," the man said forlornly. "That will not do, you must read it now."

"If I must read it now," she said, growing impatient. "Then why can you not inquire of me what you like yourself?"

"Please, madame," the man said. "It cannot hurt to take a quick look. I have read the letter myself, it will not take up very much of your time."

Irene shot a look of impatience towards the man and begrudgingly opened the letter.

"**An old acquaintance," the note read, "would be given great pleasure if Miss Adler would consent to sup with him after the opera. Miss Adler will perhaps recall this acquaintance if he mentions that she once in 1887 wished him a good night in Baker Street in London, adding his name. In Montenegro, however, he prefers to be known simply as**

** Sigerson."**

Instantly her distaste for the man was gone. He was working for a man she knew and did so desire to see again. She smiled as she rushed into her dressing room to grab a pen. She quickly jotted down at the bottom of the note **"Miss Irene Adler will be pleased to sup this evening with one she will remembers as a formidable antagonist in 1887."** She immediately returned from the dressing room and handed the note back.

"Give this to your master, Monsieur Sigerson," she said brightly. "And tell him that I do so hope he is enjoying the opera."

"I will, madame," The man said, giving her a small bow. "And I daresay he is enjoying himself immensely."

The rest of the performance was a blur. She performed exceedingly well now that she knew she had someone to impress. The thought of seeing him again as a single woman made her head spin a bit. The first time she had met Mr. Sherlock Holmes, she had no romantic interest in him whatsoever, only an appreciation for his skill as both a detective and for his skill in acting which had successfully fooled her into revealing the one item that she had not wished to reveal to anyone. But as time wore on and her marriage proved disastrous and false, she had begun to think about the different types of men in the world. She had ended up bound to a man who was a drunkard, a liar, and a fraud. However, Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street was not such a man. She was most certain that he had his downfalls, but he seemed to be an upstanding citizen and one to treat people with the respect they deserved. Irene had respect for him that soon grew to admiration the more that she thought on it, and although she knew that Holmes had misogynistic qualities about him, but the fact that he had been watching her and specifically wished to dine with her that night made her have some form of hope that she would be able to grow closer to him and break his misogynistic demeanor.

After the last bows were taken, Irene rushed to her dressing room to remove her costume and theater make up. She dressed herself as fine as she could look, grabbed her personal things, and was off. This time, a boy was waiting outside of her dressing room door.

"Madame," he said. "Monsieur Sigerson sent me to lead you to the cab that he booked for you. You are to be dining with him at the local inn in one of the private rooms. He says he wishes to spend time with you away from the other guests. Is that alright, madame?"

"Of course it is," she said, practically beaming. "Lead me to the cab boy, and I'll give you an extra tip if we make it fast."

She reached into her coin purse and pulled out a little money for the boy.

"Yes, madame!" the boy said, eagerly grabbing the money. "Right this way!"

The carriage ride was not a long one. The inn that "Monsieur Sigerson" had been staying at was not very far from the opera house and she arrived in hardly any time. The innkeeper was there at the door to meet her.

"This way, madame," the innkeeper said, helping her off of the cab. "You are expected on the uppermost floor. It seems your friend finds you a very distinguished guest, as he has ordered the finest of wines for your supper tonight."

"I am most grateful for your hospitality," she said to him as she climbed up the stairs.

"Think nothing of it," he said. "It is only my job. You should thank your host for taking such pains for you. And here we are."

They had walked up the staircase until they had reached the top floor of the building. They walked a little down the hall before stopping in front of a door to one of the private sitting rooms.

"Your friend is waiting inside," the innkeeper said. "I shall send someone up in a few moments to take your food orders. Until then, please catch up with your old friend. He seems very anxious to see you."

Irene gave the man a slight curtsy and turned to enter the room, expecting to see Sherlock Holmes waiting in the arm chair, the faintest grin on his face, delighted that he had kept his presence secret for so long. Instead, she was taken aback when she saw the same man from before, with the thick black mustache.

"Where is Monsieur Sigerson?" she demanded. "I was to sup with him tonight."

"Why surely you recognize your old acquaintance," the man answered, his voice no longer thick with Norwegian accent, but with a sharp English one. "It has not been that long since we have last crossed paths."

Irene Adler stared at the man bewildered, but after a moment it came to her.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" she cried incredulously. "I did not recognize you in the slightest!"

Holmes gave a small chuckle, obviously still pleased with his powers of disguise.

"And to think, you should be fooled only by a simple dye job and the growth of this mustache," he laughed. "You should be ashamed of yourself, working with actors all the time. I should think you of all people should have recognized me. I was willing to stake my life that you would realize my true identity when I handed you my note tonight."

"In all fairness," she protested. "The last time I laid eyes on you myself was in the dark that night in London. And the time before that, you were in the guise of a parson. It is a wonder that I can recognize your true features at all!"

"Come, come," Holmes said. "I meant no offense. Pray, sit down Miss Adler, the waiter shall come back momentarily to ask of us what we should like to eat. Let us take this time to decide and then we shall play catch up."

There certainly was much to talk about over supper that night. She had explained to Holmes why she had returned to the stage and of her faulty marriage of which he had been witness to.

"It did have a small air of illegitimacy about it," he said. "But I could not see the reason why at the time."

"False license, un-ordained minister," she said with a bit of contempt in her voice. "Godfrey wanted my income to support his drinking habits and marriage was the only way he could see fit to get it without outright stealing it. What a dreadful person he turned out to be and I am glad to be freed from that burden."

Holmes swirled the wine inside of his glass. He was a self professed man without emotions, but Irene could sense something melancholy on his face. Almost as if he would have liked to say something to comfort her, but could not. She took it upon herself to ease him out of his uncomfortable state of being.

"So, Mr. Holmes," she said. "You now know why I am here in Montenegro, but I am still in the dark as to your reasons. I see no signs of your friend Dr. Watson here. Are you on a solitary vacation?"

"One could say that if one were so inclined," Holmes responded. "But that would not entirely be true. The truth of the matter is that I am a dead man."

Irene raised a confused eyebrow.

"Mr. Holmes, what can you possibly mean by that?" she asked.

"I mean what I say," he replied, lowering his voice. "I am a dead man, or at least purported to be. At the moment, Dr. Watson and the entire world, save for my brother Mycroft, you, and one man who is trying to track me down believe me to have died at the Reichenbach Falls not very long ago."

Seeing the shock on her face, Sherlock Holmes continued the story recorded by his friend Dr. Watson in "The Final Problem", adding his amendments at the end dealing with the fact that he was, infact, still alive.

"The poor, dear doctor!" Irene sighed. "Think of how he must feel, believing his closest companion lying dead at the bottom of a waterfall!"

"I do not envy Watson," Holmes said heavily. "But it is for his and my own safety. If any one knew that I lived, my cover would be blown. I have managed to elude Colonel Moran for a while now, but he is a clever tracker and is bound to catch up to me sooner or later. Should anyone know my whereabouts then he should surely meet me sooner rather than later."

"Then why tell me?" she asked suddenly. "We have only met face to face a small number of times. What makes you think you can trust me? Have I not beaten you before?"

"Is there a reason I should not trust you?" he inquired sternly. "You do not seem the type who would betray me to the likes of Col. Moran, nor anyone else for that manner, but I have been mistaken before. One of the most winning women I have ever chanced to meet had committed a ghastly crime, murdering her own children. I should hope that you are not cut from the same stuff she was."

"No, Mr. Holmes," Irene replied. "I should like to think I am made of nobler things."

"I should like to think you are as well," he said, softening his expression.

"You have my word that I shall not speak to anyone of this meeting," she said. "If anyone should ask, I shall say I have been dining with a fan of mine, one Sigerson by name."

"Splendid," Holmes said, standing up to help her out of her chair, for by this time, supper had ended and it was indeed getting late. "However, your most devoted fan, Monsieur Sigerson hopes that this supper will not be the last. Even with the darkness of the conversation, your presence has been most welcome to one so cut off from the world he once knew."

"Then Monsieur Sigerson should be glad to hear that his presence was equally as welcome. I shall be delighted to dine with him again."

"Would tomorrow night be too soon to call upon you again?" Holmes asked, this time something odd and hesitant in his voice. "It has been rather rough these past few weeks and I am most keen on having interaction with someone familiar that is not trying to have me killed."

"I have always heard that you are a singular creature, Mr. Holmes," Irene commented. "It seems that being a hunted man has changed your disposition momentarily."

Holmes's cheeks had a slight tinge of pink to them, and he had opened his mouth to explain himself, when Irene cut him off.

"Supper again tomorrow shall be just fine," she said. "But do not worry yourself with ordering such fine wine again. Common wine will do just as good. You would not wish to draw attention to yourself by ordering such extravagant things, would you not?"

"No," Holmes stuttered. "Of course not."

"Well," Irene said, nodding a goodbye towards him. "I shall see you the same time tomorrow night after my performance. Will you be attending that one as well?"

"If you would like me to."

"Then come," she smiled. "Sit in the same box you always do and we shall take the same cab once the opera is over. There is no use in booking two cabs when one would do just as fine."

"As you wish, my dear lady," Holmes said. "I look forward to your performance tomorrow."

"And I look forward to seeing you there, Mr. Holmes," she said. And without much further ado, Irene Adler was off to her own quarters again, thrilled with how well the meeting had gone.

Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand was back in his room, smoking his pipe angrily. The visit had been a pleasant one up until the very end. Sometimes, he diluted his precise mannerisms and reasoning ways with politeness that made him acceptable in society. But his politeness had given way to something else that night. He prided himself in being cold and unfeeling, but tonight there had definitely been some tiny warm stirrings on the inside of him. Ever since he had completed the case for the King of Bohemia and kept Irene Adler's picture as recompense, he had explained his regard for her away as having a deep respect for her. After all, only the select few could outwit Sherlock Holmes. But he was sure that it was something else today.

Perhaps she had hit the nail on the head so to speak, when she said that being a hunted man changed him, but he could not be so sure.

**Bold print, taken from William S. Bering-Gould's **_**Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street**_


	2. A Discourse on Mustaches

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

**Disclaimer: All characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Premise of story is credited to William S. Baring-Gould's book **_**Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street**_**. Meat of the story by me!**

**As always, constructive criticism accepted.**

Just as the orchestra was beginning its tune-up, Sherlock Holmes under the guise of Monsieur Sigerson took his normal place in the theater box. He had a sour look on his face, hidden under the large mustache that looked very out of place on his sharp features. He had not gotten much sleep the night before. Normally this was not out of the ordinary for he was known to sometimes go days without sleep when his mind was engaged with a problem. And indeed he had a problem, but unlike his days on Baker Street where problems were solved by his intellect, this certain problem seemed unable to be resolved with his usual methods. Or, to be more correct, these certain problems.

While Colonel Moran was still on the loose, Holmes had planned on hiding out on the Mainland, planning to stay one step ahead of the ferocious hunter and in the end, hopefully have his scent lost. He was to have no contact with anyone who might remotely know him. Colonel Moran was a fierce man and had ways of extracting information out of someone. Holmes had thought it no great feat to cut off contact with anyone save his brother by coded telegram, but time had proved that this was not so. His period of friendship with Dr. John H. Watson had changed his normally solitary habits to one of companionship, if only with one person. He had become used to sharing his problems, cases, and adventures with his friend. Now, with no one to confide in, Holmes found himself a lonely man, lonelier now that no one could know his true identity for safety's sake.

This led him to another problem, Irene Adler. To be perfectly honest, he had no idea that she was to be in Montenegro. His days were normally spent exploring the Montenegrin countryside, studying the various flora and fauna that were native to the area. But after the sun had gone down and he had no light to see, Holmes had to fill his time with other activities. While in this country, he understood that while he was momentarily safe, Colonel Moran could find him at any moment. Thus, he needed to be alert and his cocaine needle could not be used to keep him occupied like it normally would have been utilized. To calm his restless spirit and pass the time away, he had looked into the local opera house and was surprised to see the name Irene Adler on the bill. He was certain she had married off and moved to America with her husband, but all the same, there her name was. Curious to see what his former adversary was up to and if indeed it was the same woman (but how could it not be?), he attended the performance.

It had taken him two days to make contact. He spent his time weighing out the positive aspects and negative aspects of revealing himself. The negative outweighed the positive by no comparison. Should he choose to reveal himself, he risked placing himself in danger, placing her in danger, and having to uproot himself and once again try to elude his seeker and find safety. That in itself had been extremely difficult to do in the first place and he was not sure if he would ever be able to do so again. But on the other hand, Holmes was desperate for some sort of familiarity. It would calm his nerves, which would be a welcome change from the past few weeks. In the end, on a whim, he made up his mind and on the third night made contact which proved indeed to be a worthwhile decision. Until his third problem arose.

Ms. Adler's company was indeed a relief. While he did not exactly get any information on London and his life there, he was informed on the happenings of someone he had at least had contact with. And it was a great relief to him to be able to share his experiences with someone other than Mycroft, although he knew he should not have done so. And therein laid the problem. Something about her made him abandon all rationality and reveal his secret. He couldn't quite put his finger on why and it had been bothering him. She was no different from any other person save for the fact that she had once outwitted him and that she… but the show was starting!

His fourth time seeing the opera and he was still amazed by her voice. He was a great appreciator of music, being a violinist himself, and the clarity and perfection of her voice. As he watched the opera, his mind drifted away from his unpleasant thoughts and problems and he sat in a half daze, simply taking in the music. It calmed his nerves, it made him feel better, and by the time the first act was over, he was back to his old ways, leaning back in his seat, closing his eyes, and beating time with the music, the faintest smile on his lips.

His mood continued to become better until at the end of the opera, he found himself uncharacteristically happy. He shook himself a little to get back into his normal mood and waited a while for the majority of the crowd to leave. Then, he proceeded backstage to Irene Adler's dressing room.

She was going through the final stages of primping when she heard the knock at the door.

"Yes?" she asked, still looking at herself in the mirror. "Who is it?"

"Monsieur Sigerson," the voice answered.

A smile flew to her face. "Just a moment!"

She finished the last of her primping, straightened her hat, and hurriedly grabbed her belongings. Irene met Holmes with a smile, and after the common formalities of greeting, sent him a wry grin.

"You fell asleep during my performance tonight."

Holmes was taken aback. "I most certainly did not. I simply closed my eyes to better enjoy the music." 

"From my position on stage, you looked asleep," she answered.

"You should be more concerned with your opera than your audience," he retorted.

"My dear man," she said. "Is not being concerned for the audience's enjoyment of the opera concerning oneself with the opera as well? If the audience is asleep, should it not inspire one to perform better?"

She had a point.

"I wasn't sleeping," Holmes argued weakly.

Irene gave a good natured laugh and crooked her arm in his, something he was not expecting, but allowed her to do since it was the polite thing.

"Come, let's go to the cab," she said. "I am absolutely famished."

Supper that night went better than the night before, the conversation being not as dark. Irene Adler, in addition to being a talented opera singer was an equally as talented conversationalist. She had gotten Sherlock Holmes talking about his various studies of the flora and fauna of Montenegro, a subject she wasn't interested in the slightest bit, but one that her host knew a great deal about. She let him speak on it, as she was much more interested in seeing him happy than learning about the different genera of Gentian. 

She took this time to study his features. He was not by any means a traditionally handsome man. His features were too sharp, his skin too pale, his frame to thin, and his nose a tad too large. And yet, altogether he was a strikingly singular figure that left some sort of impression in one's mind. And yet there was something amiss about him, and just as she was deciding exactly what it was, Holmes interrupted her thoughts.

"I seem to have lost your attention," he interjected.

"Mustache," she said aloud, more to herself than anyone else.

Holmes' brows furrowed as he brought his fingers to the large tuft of hair over his thin upper lip.

"It's dreadful," she continued, now speaking to him. "It looks out of place. You do not look like yourself."

"That was the idea behind it," he said, "to make myself unrecognizable."

"It is too conspicuous," she answered. "One knows its there to hide something."

"Nonsense," he said. "Large mustaches are in the vogue. My friend Dr. Watson sports one."

"Yes, but it suits him," Irene replied. "You look much better clean shaven. And your hair is too dark for your complexion. Black does not suit you."

"This is not about aesthetics," he sighed. "It is about survival. I cannot be too careful with my identity."

"You've told your identity to me and no other person," she said. "If I continue to call you Sigerson, no one shall know your identity if your looks return to normal. No one here knows who you are, save by your name."

"It is not as simple as that," he argued. "If Moran were to find me here looking as I looked in London, I shall hardly stand a chance. At least with my disguise it will be less likely of him to recognize me."

"Then I guess I shall have to bear with it all," she sighed. "However dreadful it may be."

"I was not aware that making personal remarks has become acceptable in polite society."

"You despise it as much as I do," Irene said coquettishly. "I can see that. You would take better care of it if you did not."

"I think I am becoming fond of it," Holmes said joking (something very uncharacteristic of him). "Perhaps I shall keep it. It gives me a distinguished air. Now, since my studies on the plant life of this area bore you, even though you are loathe to admit it, I believe it is your turn to pick a topic until our meal is finished."

And so the night continued, each becoming more comfortable in each other's presence. Normally Holmes had nothing to do with creatures of the fairer sex. They were too dense and concerned with irrelevant things, but Irene Adler had a brain in her and could provide company as good as Watson could, better still since Watson did not have a feminine charm and grace about him.

"I do not have a performance tomorrow night," she said, once they had finished eating. "So we cannot have another after party like this."

Holmes made an unreadable sound into his wineglass.

"Which means," she continued after he had said nothing else. "That my day shall be free tomorrow. If you are not too busy, do you think you could take me up to the mountains? They do look lovely this time of year and I should like to be on one."

"If you are up for the climb," he answered, putting down his empty glass.

"I shall be," she said, smiling. "If we do not ascend one that is too steep."

"I know just the one to take you to, then," he said. "I shall refrain from taking my notebook if you are to come. The study of naturally occurring plants does not seem to be a study you are much interested in."

The next day at 9 o'clock precisely, Irene Adler found a clean shaven Sherlock Holmes awaiting her with a cab, his brown hair becoming unslicked in the wind.


End file.
